Hand Soap
by Glitterglue
Summary: 5 months after the events in the movie. JL
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: not mine, just liked the movie. 

He was surprised, perhaps for the first legitimate time in his life. He prided himself on being able to outwardly display any emotion, or combination of emotions that the situation required, all the while feeling nothing but stable and calm inwardly. He had even seen all the wounds she inflicted on him when their paths last crossed coming.

Yes, this was certainly the first time Jackson Rippner had even been surprised. But, he defended himself mentally, as he shut the front door behind him and stared his former victim in the face, who would have expected Lisa to be standing on the other side of his apartment door, holding a gun level with his head? Not him, and by the looks of it, her either.

It would be a lie to say that Jackson had never thought of her over the previous five months. Everyday was a constant struggle to remain hidden from her view, to not stride up to her at the front desk of her overbearing hotel and demand that she leave his thoughts, his dreams, the landscape of his vision whenever he closed his eyes. Once or twice he had made it to the parking lot, gathering the courage to confront her, but never going through with it. He would satisfy himself with watching her walk to and from her car at night, making sure she would never be harmed again, at least not as she had before.

And now here she was. He had always assumed the roles would be reversed. That he would be the one with the gun in her apartment.

She wasn't going to kill him, that was certain, she hadn't been able to last time, why would this be any different. This was about something else, something that they both needed to settle before moving on with what ever a semblance of a life they could have.

"He's dead." she said almost accusingly.

"Who is?" he tried to keep his voice a disinterested as possible.

"HIM." she screamed, shaking the gun, and all the gravity in the room seemed to pull strongly to the scar hidden beneath Lisa's blouse. "He was killed in his cell 3 months ago, and they just got around to notifying me. I want to know why you did it"

"Maybe I didn't." he replied.

She laughed humorlessly, "I thought you never lied, Jack." she put extra emphasis on his shortened name. He grimaced and she smiled slightly at this discomfort.

"Maybe I just thought, after everything I had done to you., that it would be a nice apology." he began to walk closer to her, a step every few seconds. His body swaying from side to side, hypnotizing her.

"I don't want someone murdered as a means of apology." she spat.

"Are you sorry he's gone?" Jackson asked, concerned that her answer would open a Pandora's box of twisted emotions.

"No." she answered simply. "And thank you."

He was close enough at this point to take her gun, which she let him have without a struggle. He tossed it carelessly on the floor beside his couch.  
He could feel her ragged breath on his face as he looked down at her, her eyes shining with unasked, thus unanswered questions. Why aren't you dead? Why am I here? Why can't I just kill you? Or at the very least just stay away? He didn't know either, perhaps there were no answers where they were concerned.

"You tried to kill me." he said teasingly, pulling down the collar of his shirt, revealing the most glaring mark of her involvement in his life. She looked away quickly.

"You started it." she whispered with fragile defiance. That's what she was, this women, skin and bones and fragile defiance.

"You know, " he started gently. "We don't have to be those people anymore. The people that we were when we met." she nodded and that was all the assurance he needed.

When he woke up the next morning, she wasn't there. His heart jolted, a sensation as new and alarming as the surprise he had experienced the night before. He made his way into the bathroom, hoping for the comfort of cold water on his face. He laughed somewhat hysterically when he found what she had left for him. The words "AT WORK" scrawled clumsily on the mirror with hand soap. But, he thought to himself as he cleaned up her mess, was it really so wrong to stay the same?

When he came home from the supermarket that evening, to find Lisa sitting casually on his sofa, he didn't even both to be surprised.


	2. Chapter 2

An: continuation spurred by boredom. Jjjjust read it.

She ran away sometimes, an action that never failed to amuse and annoy him in equal measure. He'd come home from a jog or a business trip, to find all traces of her removed from his apartment. The shampoo she'd insisted he buy, the oversized shirt she slept in, some trashy romance novel she'd left on the kitchen counter. He never really knew why she'd do it, leave without a goodbye or an explanation, no note magneted to the refrigerator door. What event or action or the thoughts that would lead to her desire to get away from him. It has to do with her independence, he guesses. Sudden abandonment as a way to tell him that she still has a life away from his bed and his eyes and his smirk.

He knows that it also had to with guilt. With panic. Waking up and realizing just who she's with, just what he's done. Still asking why she just can't kill him. Or at the very least, stay away.

It's not hard to find her, she knows that he's always aware of where she's gone. It's usually her father's house, maybe Cynthia's, less and less often she spontaneously boards a plane for a visit with her mother. She still stays in her own apartment, but never when she on a mutually understand escape from Jackson. That's equal ground for some reason, he's been there, he's slept in that bed, that place is not an escape.

The length of time varies. A night, three days, sometimes a week. He's never sure of when he's going to open his front door and she'll be curled up on the couch, wearing nothing but an oversized shirt, reading some trashy romance novel. And he stands there staring at her, annoyed and amused in equal measure, but more than anything, relived. He's never sure if she'll ever come back at all.

The longest she'd been gone was two weeks. She stayed with Cynthia, claiming renovations to her apartment building. It was after they had had their first real fight. A kind of fight that doesn't contain guns and knives and pens, the kind that holds raised voices and accusations. They had both been tired, Jackson had forgot to pick up their dry cleaning and Lisa hadn't remembered it was her night to supply dinner. Such a normal thing, such a normal fight. Any couple could and probably had had it. He knows that's what scared her the most. The normalcy their relationship had adopted.

He orchestrated deaths and abductions and forgot the dry cleaning.

She carried a gun with her at all times and forgot to make dinner.

It was a turning point that time she left. He'd never gone after her before, he'd never tried to get her back. That's why she allowed herself to be surprised when she left work that night, prepared to spend another evening in Cynthia's apartment, to find him leaning against her car.

"Lisa," he started awkwardly. "Can you just come home already?"

"Yeah." she said simply, and smiled apologetically. He enveloped her in a hug and kissed her forehead gently.

She began subletting her apartment a week later. She didn't run away again. 


	3. Chapter 3

An: these are rolling out of me like they're on an assembly line. I'm not entirely satisfied with this one, it may be redone in the future.

He talks in his sleep. She's fairly sure he doesn't know this. It's not exactly a habit someone in his profession could afford to maintain. She remembers the first time he did it, he mumbled incomprehensible words into he shoulder, smiling slightly. She remembers thinking how soothing that was, and how it was certainly preferable to snoring. She had giggled and he had shifted his body closer to hers.

But it wasn't always like that. Though rarely, there were nights where the things he said were precise and articulate. His voice would ring clear and echo slightly off of his beige bedroom walls. He says he's sorry.

She knows the apologies aren't meant for her. Why would they be? She sees the expression of subtle remorse in his eyes every once in a while. It's when he's leaving and he's touching her cheek. It's when she's telling him to be careful. Telling him to just come home soon. Those are the apologies made just for her.

The ones in his dreams are for people she doesn't have the strength to ask about. She knows it's not her place, she knows it's probably not true, but while he sleeps on, she tells him that he is forgiven. She tells him that they allow him absolution. Some nights he holds her closer, others she notices a slow tear trace it's way down his cheek. The only consistency is that he refuses to meet her gaze the next morning. It has to do with guilt, she guesses. And blind hope, hope that the calm voice that penetrated his dreams spoke the truth.

"Why do you do it?" she was changing the gauze over his newest wound, a small slash just under his left ribs. Her hands were shaking, he had never come back like this before. There were bruises and scrapes, welts and scratches, but never something that bled. A small piece of her felt triumphant that no one had succeeded in harming him as much as she had been able to, but it was soon quashed by concern. And something related to betrayal. She had told him to be careful, and wounds that bled were not careful.

"It's the only thing I've ever been good at." he answered, careful to hide the pain in his voice. Her eyes narrowed into slits, mouth opening with any number of come backs. He spoke before she could get any of them out. "That, and loving you." he said with his patented charming and condescending lilt.

There was no arguing with something like that, so she simply repressed a smile and poked him lightly on his cut in retaliation.

"Apparently not that good." she teased, standing to get him some water.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her atop of him, watching to make sure none of her weight rested on his wound. "You know, I really can't strain myself for the next few days, or this deep and mortal cut will never heal." he said in a matter of fact manner. "I'm barely hanging on as it is." he protested when she rolled her eyes at him.

"You're just being lazy," she pointed out as he began to unbutton her blouse.

"You're a hotel manager," he responded, "Accommodate me."

There were occasionally more wounds for Lisa to bandage, more apologies to whisper away in the middle of the night. More forgiveness to offer without permission, more questions that she was too scared to ask. But she never thought that it wasn't worth it to her. Because Jackson never lied, he was exceptionally good at both of his talents. 


End file.
